Sunday, December 15, 2013

61

Today is the 61st anniversary of my father's birth. He's missed 14 of those birthdays now. The morning has been the usual parade of phone calls and messages between me and his parents, siblings, my uncles and aunts. Almost like condolence calls; I'm sorry your son is dead, I'm sorry your father isn't here to celebrate his birthday. This depressing little ritual we follow every year, straining to keep his memory alive. 

Yet, my father is both alive and dead in the most surprising of ways. He's alive in my eyes and my brother's voice, in unexpected gestures both of us unconsciously mirror. He is alive in my love of books and the written word and in my brother's geniality and sense of humour. These are all things we couldn't have possibly inherited from him, having spent little to no time with him at all. Despite that, we find ourselves to be remarkably similar to him. 

With each passing year though, he is further and further away from us. It takes me a second to remember his voice. We don't speak about him or tell Appa stories as often any more. Rarely do we think, it would be nice if he were here to see this today. I can't always conjure up his image immediately; I have to close my eyes and take a second and even then, the face that I see is from the picture we have hanging up of him in our house. He is no longer a breathing, moving, animate force of life. He has slowly morphed into just the picture on the wall. 

Some days though, like today, I would really just love to be able to talk to him. Nothing fancy, no garish sentimental display. Just talking to him would be nice. 

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